FFM4: Repressed, Not Repeated

For Luthor, everything was simple: it was either die here and now, or die much later and probably in a more expected way. Now, with dirt caked into every fiber of his being, and his prey only steps ahead, it would be rather inconvenient. He disregarded the possibility of pitching himself forward, and dug his heels into the softening dirt.

There was a girl, and by sunrise, she would be no more. Of this he was certain.

Anya was not a fighter, by any definition of the word. She was light on her feet, acclimated to traveling place to place like a warm breeze in late summer. Her feet hit the ground, leaving little in the way of tracks as she pushed to the ends of the strength available. Helios would make his way across the sky shortly, showing his face to the world.

Anya had all intentions of being alive to see it.

When water becomes wine, most rejoice. Luthor, on the other hand, was more concerned with the next phase. Not unlike the moon to tides, unintentional magic pushed and pulled in ways that affected far and wide.

The girl, barely a lady, swayed in a way that called life to her and pushed it away in the same familiar way, sans the salted taste in the air. He was determined to fix that, to fix and end everything.

Luthor could remember another, one who promised that nothing ended until the funeral pyre had burned to naught but dust. Another yet, who promised that even fire itself wasn’t enough to wash away the sins he had committed over the years.

He wore brands on his skin like badges. If sins couldn’t be washed or burned away, why attempt to hide his handiwork, his actions. Unlike traditional tattoos, he couldn’t forget the weight even in heavy darkness.